


If you ever hunger,

by wajjs



Category: DCU, Green Lantern - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Construct Fucking, Dubious Consent, Incorrect Uses of the GL Ring, Kink Meme, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Spitroasting, Tentacles, dc kink meme, or are they really incorrect?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:01:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27038380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wajjs/pseuds/wajjs
Summary: Hal fucks a life like construct. The only problem? He doesn't quite know how true to life it is.
Relationships: Hal Jordan/Jason Todd
Comments: 12
Kudos: 95





	If you ever hunger,

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for a prompt shared in the DC Kink Meme that took me AGES to finish. [Here's the link to the prompt](https://dckinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/766.html?thread=554238#cm)!
> 
> Basically, a GL creates a Jason-shaped construct they can fuck to relieve tension without knowing it'll create a connection to the actual living person... who will, in turn, _feel absolutely everything_ being done to their construct self.
> 
> Enjoy!

**_If you ever hunger,_ **

**_hunger for me_ **

The thing is, Hal’s heard things. Not rumours, no, he’s often going from one place to the next, never sticking around for too long to hear rumours. But. Well, he _does_ hear some complaints about the loneliness, the ever expanding vastness of space, how one can feel so little, minuscule, even while surrounded by warm green light. And it _is_ true, he’s often thought of that himself, scathing comments about his ability to think left aside for the moment.

When he’s back in orbit, or back among the streets, the hustle, the bustle; when he’s back and returns to an empty, dusty, cold flat—he feels the weight of it, and it can be so crushing. Like a heaviness he drifts along with, and he lets himself fall on his old couch, feels every spring and every odd lump prod at the tense muscles of his back, rekindling the pain that comes with it.

It’s only a couple of days Earthside, weeks if he’s lucky, almost never months, and then he’s either busy going to League meetings about things he probably should know about, but when it all went down he was in Alpha Centauri or way further than that. Time is different for him, runs in other ways across his skin. For moments it’s like it’s going too slow and he can’t burn fast enough. There are moments in which he is the joke and time is an unreachable thing, running on faster legs than Flash himself. Moments in which he’s left begging for one second more, just the one, he’s left gasping and pushing past all the injuries just so that he can catch it, so that time doesn’t turn him into a bigger fool.

It’s tiring when everyone says you’ve been made to defy things yet you can never truly defy the curse that doesn’t let you grasp what you want the most.

“Let’s go out tonight,” Barry says with a huge enthusiastic smile, hand on his shoulder squeezing the tense muscles lightly, as if affirming he is, in fact, present. “Come on! When was the last time you ever went out?”

He pretends to be offended, laughs and talks loudly because the sound does wonders to cover the ringing silence back at his apartment, the one that chases him everywhere he goes. The dust he can’t be bothered to clean. The laundry coming alive in the bathroom.

On the way out they pass Bruce who doesn’t even look at him, cowl firmly on and scowl in place, too. Behind him, two of the guys Bruce _thinks_ he _lets_ run around _his_ city follow—truth is, they don’t need no approval, and they will continue to do their own vigilante thing even if daddy bats ever says no.

His eyes meet for what’s probably only a second the eyes of the second guy, one with a face he thinks he’s seen before but definitely not enough, because _damn._ The man is abso-fucking-lutely striking, strong features, set jawline, red domino mask a teasing thing that taunts him. That white strand a tease of light among the black of the hair…

It probably lasts only a second, but to him the eye contact feels like it goes forever and that’s still not long enough. He wants to say something, anything, any word that might come to the forefront of his mind if only to keep the man around for longer, but then Barry’s calling for him and the guy has definitely moved on, lost to whatever hallway Bruce decided to take.

As far as the whole issue of love at first sight goes, this isn’t quite like that. Because he’s certain what he feels isn’t love. No, this is much simple and definitely easier to work with. What Hal is, well, is fucking _horny,_ and his hand is barely going to be enough to cut it. 

A night out will do him good.

When it’s not League business, it’s Oa with its strong, undeniable call. No matter what he’s doing or what his plans happen to be, if he’s sick or simply feeling the blues—no matter whatever might be going on, he answers. It’s his duty. Or, more accurately, part of it, because he’s not a trained dog following its master’s whistle and he never will be. When he goes it’s because there is greater good to be done and enforced; living, sentient creatures he has to work with, or deal with, and he has to put his life on the line if it means things will remain peaceful for one day more.

And this is precisely what happens as he’s getting cozy with a girl whose name he can’t remember. He’s reeling from the information he’s gotten from Barry and the one from the digging he did before coming to this random bar that seems unimportant when everything keeps happening so much on the outside. He’s got a name to remember next to the face he saw, a name he repeats internally, imagines himself tasting on the back of his tongue, and that’s the one that matters, not the one of, of, Samantha? Mary? Keighley?

Not like it makes any difference, or like it ever will, when he doesn’t bother coming up with a bad excuse before he's on his way out, texting Barry, letting him know what’s up before he’s gone again. Who knows for how long.

But the truth about loneliness, the real matter about it, the one that gnaws away at rotten tenderness and cracked bone, is that once it has its hold on you, it's so hard to make it leave. It sneaks up on you when you're distracted, when you're in between breaths, and the next one you pull into your lungs cuts worse than a knife. It follows you around like an unwanted curse, impossibly hard to kill, even harder to get rid of. Once the seed of loneliness grows, you just—

He's in between tasks, in the center of fucking everything, catching up on sleep and long overdue thoughts when the gnawing thing in his chest turns into an itch he can’t ignore. He doesn’t even think of the girl he last went out with basically months ago. He thinks of that young man and his beautiful face and his gorgeous, thick and heaven-made thighs.

The thing is, he’s heard things. Other Lanterns oversharing, or maybe sharing what they think is a perfect amount of personal information. How they use the rings even for _that,_ like it’s just normal to go up to him and say _hey Jordan, guess what? During this long mission I got so horny I used my ring to make me a damn good fleshlight and I thought you should know._

(Ok, it never happens quite like that: it’s always within the context of that type of conversation that grows and grows because one thing leads to another and it’s just that, well, things keep going on so much all the damn time, and this is a pretty common thing, why not talk about it too, you know?)

So Hal thinks: why the fuck not. 

The ring sparks to life in his hand and after that the sky’s the limit, well, that and the very real confines of this room (and his imagination, once he gets back Earthside he’s _so_ going to be doing an in-depth research on sex toys). It does the trick, eases the itch back into a comfortable place and he spends his last few hours in Oa satiated, rested, and with easily ten new logs inside his mental folder of ‘spank bank material’. If these fantasies happen to feature the same person with a white streak in their hair over and over again, no one else will ever know.

Afterwards, when he’s busy dodging energy and other assorted types of blasts aimed with the full intent to kill him, the matter of constructs and self-relief is promptly shoved to the back of the line formed by his many priorities. It won’t stay there for long, sure, but he can’t be thinking with his dick when his ass is on the line. That would be a pathetic way to go. And he knows quite a few ones.

The next time he remembers it, he's back on Earth, just returned to find everything is as it last was, only with more dust on top and the scent of stale air clinging to every surface. He opens the windows with hinges that creak and whine with lack of use, lets in the air that promises rain and, with a deeply rooted hunger that will take some time to get rid of, he sits on the couch to wait. For what, exactly, isn’t quite clear yet, though he’s confident he’ll know when it matters.

Like the many forms of life existing outside these walls, the cars, the people, the noise. It’s a slow process that lets Hal accept being back into his existence, still it is smooth and uneventful. Familiar. Even when this world and its rules truly aren’t fair to people who spend so long outside its boundaries, without traces of a life ingrained within society, spent coming and going to places, making exchanges for goods and services; even then, nothing will ever take from him the sense of _this is familiar. This is known._

And yet it’s true that time remains a different beast for those who chase the night with the light of stars. A beast that leaves them off balance whenever they are back to the place they come from. Making them feel like strangers among people they should feel some kind of connection to. Because that’s the thing, spending so much so far from cities and people and daily life, they _are_ turned into an _other._ Human by birth but no longer because of circumstance. Or something similar.

In his couch, dwelling in a room that’s yet to be touched by change, he is as much of an alien here as any actual alien would be. He looks at his hands in the creeping dark of the setting sun, his ring green and glowing, a halo of his forever changed life. That deeply rooted hunger stirs awake in the dusk, stretches its claws and begins tearing through with the confidence of something that knows very well they will win. It’s the insistence of his thoughts and his loneliness that has no predator, no one to kill it with. It’s the confirmation of him standing up again to close the curtains, rejecting the view of the outside and the outside looking at him.

With even breaths he moves through room to room to stop by the unmade bed. He takes off his shirt first, folds it and leaves it on top of the dresser. It’s methodical, really, the way he takes off his clothes one by one to then fold and then leave on top of a neat pile. The entire process gives him the thrill of anticipation, a calculated edge sharpened by his actions. 

When he opens the only drawer in his bedside table, he easily finds what he needs. 

The mattress welcomes his weight. Kicking the rumpled sheets further down towards the end of the bed, he pops open the lid of the lube, squirts some into his open palm, warms it up. He keeps breathing evenly, smiles at the thought of what he’s about to do as he closes his hand around himself, relishes in the feeling, nerves sparking up with renewed life. 

It’s much too easy for him to bring back to memory the image of that face he’s been obsessing over, the name, ah, the plush of his lips, the line of his jaw—

His ring lights up the room vibrant green. That face is now staring back at him, emerald and shining. Hal laughs.

This, too, is only natural.

  
  


Jason’s _finally_ ready for bed. His entire body is sore from all that fighting and the punches he had no option but to roll with because it was either a closed fist or the pointed edge of a knife. And he might be a sucker for pain on the good days, yet he is far from an idiot. So he’s bruised to hell and back, a couple of minor lacerations that only really stung in the shower, and now the only thing on his mind is to fall face-first on his bed so he can pass the fuck out.

He does precisely that. Or, well, it's more like he tries to. Because less than five minutes later there’s the very distinct feeling of something slithering up his thigh, wrapping around it. His answer to the sensation is so ingrained within his veins, it is completely seamless and natural: grab the dagger under his pillow, turn to face the threat, stab the fuck out of it and—

There’s nothing.

There’s nothing on his leg, no one in the room. But the feeling is _there,_ getting more and more intense and he’s up on his feet in the blink of an eye, double checks his surroundings, makes _really fucking sure_ he is alone. Only then, just as the same feeling mirrors his other leg, he sits back on the bed before going through all the events of the night.

No encounters with weird ass metas. No fights that involved any kind of magic, not even the dollar store tricks. No new drugs, no—

A gasp stumbles through his lips when—

“ _No,_ ” eyes open wide, he shudders and chokes on air, the fingers around the handle of the dagger closing in with enough strength that all his knuckles go white. 

He stays still otherwise, tries to make sense of what is happening because he _knows_ that feeling _intimately well,_ the feeling of a finger pressing inside, pushing past the tight ring of muscle, slow and easy and the first step towards getting him ready.

Except the times that thing happened, there was always somebody else in the room, on the bed, keeping him down against the mattress or watching from below as he, he, he. A hiss escapes his clenched teeth when the stretch grows a bit too soon, not that he doesn’t like that edge of—confused, body now tossed somewhere between tiredness and slow, simmering arousal, he gets the flash of a thought and now he needs the confirmation. There are no mirrors nearby, though. The only one is in the bathroom and it’s definitely not a full body one.

By touch he’ll have to go.

Heart coming all the way up to his throat, Jason takes a deep breath, spreads his legs, not much, really, just enough for him to slide his free hand inside his sweats, under his boxers, dip just low enough to feel… His blood rushes in contrary directions when he can slip two fingertips easily inside himself. It’s like someone’s really stretching him, really opening him up, while somehow not being physically present. It’s like an extremely whack wet dream or something you’d find in hentai manga, those bastards are already so goddamn weird.

The pressure inside gives in to one more and Jason’s breathing is this side of rushed, looking in disbelief at his hand lost inside his pants, the clear line of his cock getting hard. Those are, without a doubt, three fingers inside him and whoever is moving them really knows how to do it. He falls on his back, stares up at the ceiling and tries to detach himself from his body, but it’s so hard when with each breath he loses two—when ghostly fingertips press against his prostate, milk it for all he’s worth. He can’t let go of the dagger because it feels like it is his only lifeline to this realm and he can’t move his own fingertips that are still barely past his rim, adding to all the sensations. 

He gets a little dizzy thinking of what he must look like and his few clothes leave him feeling both a little thankful and a little out of place. How bizarre would it be to spread his legs in front of a mirror, see his hole gaping open with fingers that aren’t there making him so and he'd be able to see what he looks inside, what his handful of partners have seen. 

Dampness against the shell of his ear and he shudders, for a minute thinks he can hear the whisper of someone telling him he can take it real good, can’t he, and that’s nearly enough to have him toppling over the edge. Nearly, even when just then the digits push in as deep as they go and force all the air out of his lungs, have him tossing his head back, mouth open and gaze dazed. Both electric and liquid pleasure run up and down his spine, making him arch it, motion leaving the hard line of his cock exposed even under his pants. 

His underwear feels restricting, he needs to feel the fresh air of the room licking all over his skin. Not entirely in control of his movements, he lets go of the weapon, uses both hands to push his pants down, to get rid of them and of his boxers so that he’s completely naked on his bed, thin pearls of sweat the only thing he’s wearing. 

Jason closes his eyes, then. Whatever is going on, there’s no stopping it. He doesn’t know the source, doesn’t know what brought it on, and for once he’s truly too bewildered to do anything else that isn’t sitting back and just taking it. Which is really a fitting thing to say when he closes his own hand around his cock, squeezes the base before moving his palm up the shaft all the way to the tip. He’s so hard it’s nearly painful, dick leaking with his arousal, and that’s what he ends up using in a desperate attempt at making the slide of his palm a smoother one. He’s getting really close and he’s getting there surprisingly fast and—

The shout comes out like it’s punched out of his chest when the fingers are replaced by something definitely bigger (too big too big too big too—) and _god,_ whoever’s at the other end of this fucked up sex isn’t holding back because Jason’s stretched open and stuffed full in just a second. His eyes roll under his eyelids, his mouth falls open. He can’t control the movements of his hips when there’s an undeniable back and forth motion, fast and hard and, and, and.

Hand gripping the base of his cock, he plants the soles of his feet on the mattress, lifts his hips, dips his head back into a pillow. He’s barely breathing, really, and then the feeling is aggravated when something slips past his lips, down inside his throat, relentless and never caring that he’s gagging around an invisible but unshakeable weight.

His thoughts are like sparks that go on and off and are then overcome by a sea of _feeling._ The muscles in his stomach clench in anticipation, his lungs seize with the burning lack of air, he’s close, so close, _almost there, almost,_ except the drop never comes. He’s wound tight and used, hard and leaking, and he wants it, he wants to come, he wants it so bad but it’s not happening, why isn’t it happening, with his ass being fucked over and over and over, obscenely filled to the brim, and all that pressure on his prostate making him see galaxies from three universes to the left. With something down his throat keeping him so busy on both ends, with imaginary ropes digging into his thighs. He’s so eager for it. So ready.

_Please,_ he begs inside the safety of his mind where he knows no one will hear the way he’s shaken to the core, _please just let me—_

It’s unmistakable, when this silent partner of his finishes. Jason knows exactly when because there’s nothing quite like the feeling of someone shooting their load deep inside his ass. He falls down on the bed, coughing and swallowing in quiet gratitude when his throat is freed, head far too gone to care about the line of drool on the side of his mouth. The pressure between his legs doesn’t let up, though. It’s unmoving inside him, big and unrelenting. That’s also something he doesn’t mind too much except that he himself is still hard. Painfully, frustratingly so.

Licking his lips, he opens his eyes to stare at the ceiling once more. He sighs, drops his hands to his sides before leaning up on his elbows to look at the rest of the room. Still as alone as he was when this started. He doesn’t know if he’s thankful or disappointed.

“You…,” he takes a deep breath, tries to calm down his racing heart, “you’re really going to leave me hanging, huh.”

The cock (because that is without a doubt a damn big cock) inside him starts moving again, just then. It’s slow, now, long drawn out motions that keep him alight, ignited. His own dick twitches where it’s flush against his belly, leaving a sticky wet spot on his skin. It feels good, it really does.

And it only gets better when there’s something else pushing inside him on the next slide of that length. It wiggles a little, Jason’s confused as to how he can identify that feeling, but it’s stretching him open more than he’s ever been. He thinks he can take it, though, or, well, he’s got no option but to take it. That’s his last coherent thought because another tendril he cannot see wraps around his cock, slithers up and down, presses down on the tip, presses in and in and in and—

Jason’s head bounces as it falls on the pillow and he’s dizzy but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t fucking matter when he’s hitting such a high he might as well be soaring through the goddamn atmosphere. His vision goes white with it, his voice is broken and only a thin tremor when his ass is getting pounded again and he’s finally, _finally,_ _yes, yes, fina—_

  
  


It’s getting close to midday when Jason can, at last, roll out of bed.

Well.

He doesn’t really get out of bed the minute he’s no longer being assaulted each and every way a person can be. Yes, he’s sticky and yes, he’s sweaty, but he’s also sore and just so, so spent. He can barely keep his eyes open. He doesn’t think he’s got any jizz left inside his balls.

He’s been, true to word, fucked dry.

So in reality, it’s half an hour of peace later that he gets up on shaky legs, sheets sticking to his body because of all the dried cum and sweat. He needs a shower. 

Standing upright is a whole new experience but he needs a shower and there’s nothing he dislikes quite as much as being dirty when he’s got the tools to get clean again. Which is why he stumbles to the bathroom, uses the walls as physical support till he’s under the warm spray. Absentmindedly, he dips his hand between his legs again, fleetingly touches the edge of his rim thinking he needs to get all that release out and—sparks of pain and pleasure have him listing to the side, shoulder hitting the tiled wall. There’s nothing inside him, of course.

His ass feels so tender and raw. He keeps his fingertip there, adds pressure ever so gently and even then a wince escapes his mouth. The sizes of the things inside him just kept getting bigger and bigger and when dawn broke, he actually thought he was going to pass out. Except that he never did.

Whoever did this, Jason thinks, letting his eyelids fall closed. Whoever did this, I need to find them. I need to know who. I need.

Hm.

You see, the funny thing is… he doesn’t know if he wants to kill them... or ask for more.


End file.
